by Nick Gisburne
The wizard cracks a crystal, like an egg.
Inside, there ticks a crimson, clockwork heart.
Astonished by the spectacle, we beg
For secrets he refuses to impart.
He smashes it. The pieces, in a trice,
Refitted, frame the figure of a boy.
With elegant illusion, pure, precise,
The features, fully formed, reveal their joy.
He speaks, a tale, a truth, too much to bear.
The phrases fall as glitter from his lips.
Bedazzled by deception, as we stare,
The conjurer, with silver scissors, snips.
He shivers as he drains away our souls,
And breaks a crimson heart to heal the holes.
